AN ISLAND provides refuge for refugees. Their roofs, tablecloths, and bedsheets wave from the port’s breeze. Temporarily permanent, adjacent to the water, each tent kneels behind the mayor’s office and in front of a tenth-century castle. The locals park close by. A yank of emergency brake sounds like the pull of a zipper in winter.
The locals gather at outdoor cafés that overlook the port and the people walking along its perimeter. Their coffee awaits. Frappé, sweet, but no milk. And please, bring an ashtray. They mumble with small filters suffocating between puckered lips to a server working for tips
